"What do you think of that whisky, Mr. Dabble?"
"Whisky, sir? This is sherry," answered the clerk, "and quite a respectable quality too."
"How 's that?" asked Moore, in surprise; then, sipping the contents of his own glass, he found that his guest was quite right. Meanwhile Buster, from the concealment afforded him behind Mr. Dabble, was making frantic gesticulations to his master, finally succeeding in catching his eye.
"What ails the boy?" muttered Moore, rarely puzzled to understand how his empty cupboard could have furnished the refreshment Buster had just put before them.
"Eh?" said Mr. Dabble, sipping his sherry in a manner that gave the lie to his recent announcement of total abstinence.
"Sherry it is," said Moore. "Fault of the label, Mr. Dabble. Your best health, sir."
"It is very fair sherry, Mr. Moore, very fair," declared the clerk, condescendingly, "but pardon me if I say it is hardly up to our level of quality."
"Is that so, Mr. Dabble?"
"Yes, sir. Now I have some really superior sherry in my basket there."
"Oh, law!" exclaimed Buster in an undertone. "'Ere is where Hi takes to cover."